Kira leans in conspiratorially close again.I can smell the scent of her hair, the freesia-like perfume of her skin.Before I properly comprehend what she’s about, her lips are brushing softly against my skin.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you a good luck kiss, like a friend would do,” she murmurs.“Maureen’s here for you.”
“We’re not friends,” I hiss at her, outraged and heated by the contact.
One of her blonde brows quirks ever so slightly, and a smirk tweaks up the edges of her luscious lips.“Tonight we are, Dylan.Be good now, and play along.”
I don’t want to play along.I want her out of my way… Heck, out of my life, but I’m supremely conscious of the fact that Maureen is waiting patiently by the door.
“You’ll do fine.You’ll be great,” Kira says.The empty platitudes drip off her tongue and sound all too convincing.
Whatever, whatever…just let me go.
She’s not through yet though.She moves her head, ready to bestow another kiss, like we’re both French or serious luvvies.I don’t know what happens, but instead of her lips brushing my cheek, the kiss smacks me straight on the mouth, and lingers there.
It ought to last no longer than a single breath, but infinity stretches out before us.I feel every sensation; the touch of moisture, the frisson of energy zapping down through my torso, the way our bodies resist parting, clinging on to one another until the surface tension breaks.
I wipe my mouth, but she’s still there.
My heart’s in my throat as I walk away from her, and I’m deaf to the praise Maureen is so keen to heap upon me—something about how the charity is so thrilled to have me as a patron.Only, when my mind finally kicks back into gear, and I run over the speech I’ve prepared—advocating proudly being who we are, whoever we are—I feel like the biggest fucking fraud ever, because my past seems to have tumbled by the wayside.All those experiences are nothing to what I want to experience with Kira Carter-Wells.I think I might actually have to fuck her, just to get her out from under my skin.
-6-
-Kira Carter-Wells-
I’m on edge as I follow Dylan and Maureen into the stage wings, eavesdropping on their mundane conversation for any suggestions of a threat.Though he won’t admit to it, I can sense Dylan’s tension.Something at this event has him rattled.I don’t know if that thing is a threat I need to be troubled by, or if he’s merely caught wind of some deal or rumour that he’s pissed off by.Either way, I make doubly sure I’m familiar with three different exit strategies from off the stage, should a situation arise that necessitates extracting him.
“Stick tight to him, Kira.”I hear Howard Falchard, as if he’s still talking to me through the coms.
Yeah, I’m sticking.I’m sticking.
It’s funny.At the start of this evening, I was sure I hated him for breaking my heart, but the more time I spend in his presence, the more difficult I find it to hold a grudge, and the more obvious it becomes that I have no right to accuse him of anything.Dylan Drake didn’t break my heart; I did that to myself, by assuming something I had no right to assume.
The guy’s gay.He doesn’t owe me any sort of apology for that.
And as much as I might wish him otherwise, I’m going to have to accept that things are what they are, unless I want to wind up being a Rosie Kleen clone.
The kiss was my way of sealing that deal with myself.It was a way of saying“Yup, farewell.I loved you.I could still love you, but it’s over.”We’re never going to be, so there’s no point wasting my time.It is a shame he’s only prepared to see me as a secret agent though.I think it could be fun to be his friend.Well, if I ignored all the irritating stuff I know he does that I consider foolish, like sleeping around and not taking threats to his life seriously, and imagining the company he’s working with wants to wrap him in sticky tape.
It’s a long wait in the wings.What I do find interesting, listening as I am with half-an-ear to his conversation with the usher and the other bods from the Harris Peppard Trust, is how often Dylan feels it necessary to mention his orientation.It’s like he’s reaffirming it to himself, every time he tells someone he’s gay.It kind of suggests he has doubts.
Then again, I’ve never really understood the necessity to ‘come out’ and announce your preferences to the world.A person’s sexuality is nobody’s business but their own.I’ve never felt the need to inform anyone I’m straight.
Dylan would likely tell me that’s because the general assumption is that everyone is straight by default, but personally I think there’s more to it than that.Just as I know there’s more to his constantly labelling himself than he’s letting on?Maybe he’s not skewed so far to one end of the Kinsey scale as he’d like everyone to believe.
Yeah, and maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
That kiss was nice, but it was a goodbye, not a hello.
Seriously, girl, he’s not going to suddenly go gooey-eyed over you.The flirting early was just due to him playing along with the notion you’re his date, and him being a shameless charmer.It was not because he has any intention of taking you home tonight.
Nope, it’ll be business me escorting him to bed, and making sure he’s safely tucked in with no suspect parties present.
When Dylan takes to the stage, I remain in the wings.That puts me further from his side than I’d ideally like to be, but it’s as close as possible without causing a stir, and even though the view isn’t so great, it beats returning to the dining table, which is once again full of his co-stars, colleagues and admirers.I endeavour to keep half-an-eye trained on Rosie and Adam, while I watch Dylan’s back, and the rest of the room.
Dylan talks at length about the Harris Peppard Trust and the charitable work they’re doing with young LGBT etcetera adults, about his shitty personal experiences growing up and how the TV and film industry must continue to do their part by portraying the whole spectrum of human experiences, not just a tight, straight, white-centric viewpoint.He’s interrupted by numerous rounds of applause.
